“Well, the frustration wasn’t that bad, although we did put out a big warehouse fire.” His voice became dreamy. “You should have seen it, Em. Fierce, orange-white flames leaping for the sky. It was beautiful, truly beautiful.”
He brushed kisses along the nape of my neck again, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation. “I hope you were careful when you drew them in, Rory.”
His hands slid out of my sweats. Disappointment swirled, but only for a moment, because his touch slid under my T-shirt and up toward my breasts. “I was. And, god, it felt glorious.”
Fire to a phoenix was like chocolate to most women. Totally unnecessary as a fuel source, but sinfully pleasurable all the same. It was a wonder he was controlling himself this well. Had our positions been reversed, I probably would have had my wicked way with him right here in the kitchen, the consequences be damned.
His hands reached my breasts and cupped the weight of them. His skin was so hot it might as well have been flames holding me. It felt good, so good.
I licked my lips, then reached back with one hand, sliding it between us until I found the zipper in his jeans. As his clever fingers began to gently pinch and pull my nipples, I slid the zipper down. He wasn’t wearing underpants—he rarely did when he was this horny—and his cock came free, thick and hard and pulsing with need. I played my fingers along the length of it, and he groaned.
“Not like this,” he murmured, even as his body instinctively pressed harder against mine. “I want the real thing, Em. Flame, not flesh.”
And with that, he pulled away, caught my hand in his, and tugged me after him. We all but ran to the apartment’s third bedroom, only there was no bed in this room. There was, in fact, no furniture at all. Just four thick, fireproof walls and a bare concrete floor that had been treated with fire retardant.
I kicked the door shut behind us, but the utter blackness of the room didn’t hold sway for long. Anticipation danced from his skin, tiny fireflies that spun brightly through the room.
He stopped, then caught my other hand, his amber eyes glowing with heat as he raised my fingers and kissed them gently. “Flame for me,” he said. “Please.”
I smiled and let the heat rise. Fire erupted between our joined hands, primal and hot. He threw back his head, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in the fierceness of it. His skin began to glow and the heat of it rolled over me, a siren song that was so sweet, so enticing.
“More,” he whispered.
I allowed the flames to grow, let the molten fingers reach for the ceiling. He gasped, shuddering, and the delicious waves of heat and desire became more intense, fueling the urge to fully become flame rather than flesh. But not yet. Not just yet.
“Rory,” I said, needing more than just the caress of heat and desire.
He responded instantly and erupted into flame. It tore through my body, enticing my own fires to life with such force that it was hard to tell where his flame ended and mine began. This was no caress, no tease. This was a firestorm that ripped through every muscle, every cell, breaking them down and tearing them apart, until our flesh no longer existed and we were nothing but fire.
He was fierce and bright in the darkness, a being that radiated strength and passion and caring. All I could think about, all I wanted, was his heat and energy in and around me. We began to dance, entwine, wrapping the fiery threads of our beings around each other, tighter and tighter, intensifying the pleasure even as it rejuvenated and fed our souls. Soon there was no separation—no him, no me, just the sum of both of us, and oh, it felt glorious.
But this wasn’t just sex for us—this was something a whole lot more vital. Phoenix pairs needed to regularly merge flames, or face diminishing—in some cases, even death. And this was the reason so many of our relationships had turned to ashes. No matter how much we might love someone else, we could never remain faithful to them. Not if we wanted to live.
The dance went on, burning ever brighter, ever tighter, until it felt as if the threads of our beings would surely snap and implode.
Then everything did, and I fell into a storm of feverish, unimaginable bliss.
I’m not entirely sure when I came back to flesh, but it was to the awareness of a distant but determined pager buzzing away madly. I swore softly, but didn’t move. In the aftermath of such an intense joining, my legs usually refused to support me. Professor Baltimore could wait for a change.
After several moments the page stopped. I stared into the darkness, listening to Rory’s breathing, feeling good and happy and whole.
And yet . . .
And yet, as good as it was between us, I always wanted more. I wanted what Rory and I had and an emotional connection. But that wasn’t my lot. Not in this lifetime. Not in any future lifetimes. The best I could ever hope for was a man who was willing to share—and men who understood the necessity of my being with Rory were few and far between.
Sam’s image rose like a ghost to taunt me. Sam certainly hadn’t been one of those few. He’d been furious when he’d found out about Rory’s presence in my life—furious and betrayed, and justifiably so in many respects. I’d tried to explain what I was and why Rory was so necessary to me, but Sam had refused to listen.
I sighed and rubbed a hand across my eyes. After all this time, you’d think I’d be used to the pain of disappointment. But it never got any easier.
Ever.
Rory eventually rolled onto his side and dropped a kiss on my lips, soft and lingering. “I hope that page wasn’t urgent.”
I took a deep, shuddery breath that did little to ease my aching heart. “Knowing Mark, he probably just wants coffee.”
“Then I better let you go. I know what it’s like to suffer caffeine withdrawal.” A grin I felt rather than saw teased his lips. “It’s almost as bad as sex withdrawal.”
“Which is not something you suffer very often.” Amused, I pushed upright, then walked into the living room and grabbed my handbag, rummaging through it until I found the pager. There was no message, but the little light on the side of the small screen was flashing, which usually meant he wanted to see me but was too busy to tell me why.
I threw the pager back into my bag, then headed into the bathroom for a quick shower. Urgent or not, I wasn’t about to head to work smelling of smoke and fire.
“The chicken should be done in another twenty minutes,” I said, walking back into the kitchen once I was dressed. “Don’t wait up for me—I have no idea how long this is going to take.”
He nodded, then wrapped his arms around me and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Catch a taxi. Public transport sucks at this hour.”
I relaxed against him for a moment, but as the air began to burn all around us again, I pulled away, grabbed my bag and coat, then got the hell out of there before desire got the better of common sense.
I arrived at the institute about twenty minutes later. Lights shone from various windows, including the one Mark usually operated from. I swept my ID card through the slot, then walked across the foyer to the security desk. The guard, a thin man in his mid-forties, watched me impassively from under heavily set brows.
“May I help you?”
I grabbed the sign-in book and nearby pen. “Is Professor Baltimore working in his usual lab tonight? He paged me about half an hour ago.”
The guard—Ryan Jenkins, according to his name tag—frowned. “I think the professor left about two hours ago.” He paused and checked the other book. “Yep. You can see his signature right there.”